I took Helen's hand, and she held it tight against her violets, crushing
them and staining my palm with their fragrant juice. I didn't dare trust
myself to speak.
"And now that it is all settled, let's break it to mother," Mr.
Claybourne exploded with a grim attempt at his usual humour. He left the
room without giving us a chance to object. I looked at Helen's face,
more beautiful now than I had ever dreamed a woman's could be. A large
tear rolled down her cheek, and I fell on my knees beside her, burying
my face in her lap. She stroked my head.
"I'm not crying, Ted dear--I'm not the crying kind. I am just so happy I
guess a--a little of it--overflowed." I kissed her wet cheek, and we sat
in silence, waiting. Sounds of sobbing came from the stairs, and of
patient, consolatory remarks. Helen smiled: "Poor mother--it sounds
horrid to say it, but she always acts her part perfectly."
"Mother" entered, with smelling salts and dainty lace handkerchief,
collapsed on her husband's shoulder, striving wonderfully for hysterics.
"Ted," said Mr. Claybourne, leading his wife to an easy chair, "I don't
believe you are a very popular young man with part of the family--Lucy,
I want you to shake hands with your future son-in-law."
I timidly advanced, an action which brought about a relapse. When she
was a girl, daughters had the common decency to confide in their
mothers; they didn't announce engagements to practically total
strangers; they didn't get half-killed riding horseback with Tom, Dick,
and Harry; they showed some consideration--some sense of the fitness of
things; they went regularly to Church and were obedient. At this point
Mr. Claybourne admitted a damaging piece of evidence.
"We ran away to be married, Lucy, when you were seventeen and we had
just one hundred and twenty-seven dollars between us. What's more, I've
never regretted it," he finished, with unexpected tenderness in his
voice.
"Mother!" Helen pleaded, and she stretched out her arms. Mrs. Claybourne
staggered across the room and melodramatically hurled herself upon her
daughter. At the end of another outpouring of sobs and tears, she
consented reluctantly to shake hands, and submitted to a formal kiss
from me, at Helen's command. I am afraid I did not linger very long over
it. With a few more remarks about no one having any regard for her
wishes, or taking into consideration her nervous state, she began to
cheer up remarkably.
Upon noting these favorable symptoms, Mr. Claybourne announced that he
was off for the club, at the same time inviting me to stay and "amuse
Helen" until after supper.
"I hope, Martin, you are not going to play cards on Sunday--at the
least, not for money." Mr. Claybourne showed long practice in the skill
with which he evaded a direct reply, and left hurriedly.
"I don't know what we shall do, Helen, when we announce your engagement.
Neither of us have any clothes fit to wear."
I was staggered by this transition to the practical, but at least the
implication was that the period of resistance was over.
"We can go to New York before Christmas," Helen said.
"Your father is always complaining I spend too much money," mother
sighed, "although he seems to forget, Edward, that I have a grown-up
daughter to manage. Of course, now I won't be able to go to Palm Beach
for the winter, as I had planned, and this climate is simply killing my
nerves. But I don't suppose that ever entered either of your heads."
Helen's eyes danced as we stole a look at one another, but Mrs.
Claybourne continued, unconscious of anything but herself: "There isn't
a single dressmaker in this city who can turn out a decent evening
dress, and all Helen's clothes will have to be made to order--she can't
wear _jeune fille_ things any more. Oh, dear, and I don't suppose I'll
have any help planning your trousseau--you and Edward will be off riding
horseback day and night--it will all be left for me to settle, and I
declare I haven't the health or the strength."
There was no use trying to assure her that we probably should take some
interest in the course of subsequent events. Our engagement settled
itself down as a conspiracy to prevent her from going to Palm Beach;
moreover, it was a deliberately chosen scheme to add to her cares and
responsibilities at a time when her nerves were on the edge of a general
breakdown. By some mysterious tactful process Helen persuaded her mother
to take another rest, and we were left alone.
I drew my chair up beside her. "Poor Ted," she smiled; "you've had quite
a trying day."
"Did I put my foot in it anywhere?" I asked.
She laughed: "Not once, unless you consider an engagement to me, now you
know the family, putting your foot in it."
"Why did Ludwig von Oberhausen send you flowers?"
"Ah, I knew you'd ask that at the first opportunity. Why do you suppose
he did?" she teased.
"Because you are the most beautiful girl in the world."
"Stuff, Ted, that wasn't the reason; besides, only you could believe
that. It was because he thought I had money; I was number three on his
list. Oh, he was methodical about it, Ted, beginning with a formal call
on mother on her day at home. Every Saturday night at six a dozen
American beauties arrived, until you galloped over the horizon that day
on Satan."